That Seat Is Taken

 

I was seeking a spiritual community—a place where I could root myself and belong. So I committed myself wholeheartedly to a local Unity church. I attended services regularly. I joined the choir, signed up for classes toward membership, and participated in several volunteer activities. I was hoping that over time, I’d feel the connection and community I was seeking.

But despite all my efforts, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was an outsider.

The moment that crystallized came during a Thanksgiving dinner. I had brought a dish to share—something from my kitchen which I made in the spirit of holiday. When it was time to eat, I filled my plate and searched for an open seat and a familiar face. I spotted an open chair next to someone I recognized and made my way over. Just as I was about to sit, the woman looked at me and said,

“I’m sorry. That seat is taken.”

I apologized, and moved on. I saw two more empty chairs and tried again—only to hear, almost word for word, the same line:

“That seat is taken.”

Eventually, I sat alone. I didn’t want to risk another rejection.
As the room filled and tables grew crowded, others did sit near me. However, the damage was done and so was my appetite. I sat in silence, holding back tears, while trying to process what had just happened.

That dinner was the turning point. It distilled everything I’d been feeling. Despite giving it all I had, I was never truly accepted—let alone embraced by the church community.

And when I stopped attending, no one reached out. No one asked why I left.

Maybe no one knew I was gone at all. Maybe no one cared.

It forced me to ask a painful but necessary question—not just about that church, but about religion itself:

Why do so many spiritual spaces preach love, yet fail to practice it?

That question persisted long after I left Unity years ago. It followed me through the process of inner searching and a grief over a faith I had hoped would sustain me.

I had wanted warmth. A space where people don’t just say “you belong,”  but show it with invitation and the simple gesture of saying,

“Here, sit with me.”

What I realized is religion often tells the story of love, but too often forgets how to live it. Kindness is preached from pulpits, but often absent at the table. Belonging is promised, yet withheld.

That’s when I knew I was done.

Not with the wonder or mystery of life which, for me, now exists outside of religion or religious beliefs, but with institutions that ask for your devotion and participation, but offer little in return.

I’m no longer seeking a place in someone else's sanctuary.
I’m building my own: One with room at the table—especially for anyone who’s ever been told,

“That seat is taken.”

Because kindness should be the seat that’s waiting.